With food celestial feedeth
by jomiddlemarch
Summary: The honeymoon was over. This is inspired by "Home, rejoicing" by OxfordKivrin and serves as a small sequel/AU to whatever future she has planned.


"Open it, sir! I mean, oh dear, I just can't seem to call you Christopher," Sam exclaimed, her fingers absently pleating her full skirt as she perched on the edge of the chair Rosalind had always favored. She and Andrew had only returned a fortnight ago from their honeymoon in Barcelona and this was a proper visit, Sam had declared as they walked into the house, not the brief call they'd made the day after they'd come home, both with a healthy color. Sam's eyes had been bright and Andrew's calm, even a little drowsy, and Foyle had known the marriage would be a success.

"My friends have been known to call me 'Kit.' If you can manage it," he offered to his daughter-in-law. She'd seemed to have lost her way once she'd stopped driving him, at sixes and sevens his mother would have said, and he was happy to see her settling into life as Samantha Foyle with more equanimity and cheer. What she'd make of Oxford and Oxford of Sam remained to be seen but he was sure it would be highly entertaining and there were perhaps some women at Shrewsbury who might find a way to harness that indomitable spirit and energetic mind to a purpose that had eluded Sam.

"Oh! I think I should be able to, sir. That is, Kit," she said, grinning and then tilting her head to one side, a little like an inquisitive sparrow. "It's not an obvious choice for you, though, is it? They must have known more about you to make the name suit."

How Rosalind would have liked her, he thought again. Just enough cheek and no more, a thorough, unpretentious sweetness underlying her every action, and a quick tongue that got her into trouble more often than not if she was not competently pretending to be the vicar's daughter again. He remembered sitting by her bedside when she was so desperately ill with anthrax, how she worked to breathe in and out, how she had looked for him and been comforted to see the grey line of his suit before she'd lifted her eyes to his face. And now, here she was in his sitting room, her hair soft around her face, her carefully applied lipstick smudged by the kiss Andrew had stolen when Foyle went to make the tea, the garnet ring like the heart of a rose on her slender hand and the narrow gold band below it that Andrew had given him to carry at the ceremony. He caught Andrew's eye above Sam's head.

"They must have," he said dryly, the warmth obvious to both of them, Sam flushing a little and Andrew chuckling.

"Dad, open your gift already. It's not much but it won't improve with age," Andrew called out, setting his tea-cup down and walking over to stand behind Sam and rest a hand lightly on her cardiganed shoulder. Foyle could not help noticing that his son's hand did not tremble and he was not grasping his wife tightly to still it. He turned his attention to the carefully tied package on his lap and fiddled with the wrapping, revealing a gaily decorated tin with a Spanish woman holding a fan, her lace mantilla linear as it never would be in life.

"Dulce de membrillo, eh?" he said.

"It's quince paste! It was everywhere in Spain and Andrew said it was like you had followed along. We thought we could see if it measure up to your jam, though it's supposed to be served with cheese," Sam explained. Foyle could not help smiling at being so well-known, so well-loved by the two people he loved best, at the idea that they had both missed him during the whirlwind honeymoon that had made them easily affectionate with each other, Andrew's hand at Sam's waist, her hip, formerly diffident Sam reaching up to touch her husband's cheek without any pretext at all.

"I suspect the Spaniards would groan, but perhaps the bit of Cheddar I have can substitute for whatever is traditional. And we might switch over the sherry from the tea," Foyle said. "Andrew, why don't you-"

"Leave it to me, I know my way around the kitchen here," Sam announced. "You can tell your father about the flat we found in Oxford and about that funny Miss Lydgate we met." Andrew took his wife's seat with a fond glance at her graceful, retreating form and Foyle saw how Sam had nearly arranged it all, before she gave him a swift nod he remembered and would have to learn again.


End file.
